


Out of Breath

by draculard



Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: ...Leather Kink?, Breathplay, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Leather Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: “Gloves on or off?” Pellaeon asked, approaching the bed. He rested one hand on Thrawn’s abdomen as he asked the question, so he could feel the sharp intake of breath even if he couldn’t hear it, even if Thrawn gave no outward sign that he was listening.“On,” said Thrawn softly.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	Out of Breath

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too

There had been innumerable orders between them, all of them one-sided — Thrawn’s lips dictating Pellaeon’s actions. But this was not an order; it was a request, spoken softly, almost hesitantly; it was Thrawn’s eyes studying him, burning into him, waiting for an answer even as he angled the rest of his body away and pretended the answer didn’t really matter to him.

Pellaeon blinked, processed the request, worked some moisture in his mouth. He tried to picture himself doing it, found it easier to imagine than he'd thought.

“I’ll try,” he said.

Immediately, he knew it was the wrong thing to say; there was no change in expression to tell him so, but Thrawn turned his head away, the set of his jaw tight. Something in his eyes indicated dismissal, disappointment — and Pellaeon didn’t want to disappoint, but he wasn’t sure what else he could have said.

An apology hung in the air between them. Sensing it — as he always seemed to sense these things — Thrawn said with crisp dignity, “I don't want you to _try_ , Gilad. Either agree to do it or don’t; the choice is yours. But I’m not interested in any half-hearted concessions.”

Pellaeon nodded; his mouth was dry. His voice came out as a whisper.

“Alright, then,” he said, looking not at Thrawn but at their hands, so close together but not quite touching. “I’ll do it.”

He pretended not to notice the ripple of rising tension in the room. Thrawn turned to him; the aura of command was still there, the haughty take-it-or-leave-it aloofness from earlier seeming to sharpen rather than fade, but something had changed. It was as intangible as a crackle of electricity in the air.

“You’re a man of your word,” said Thrawn, his voice unreadable, but lower now, a little rough despite his best efforts to keep it steady. Something in his face commanded (begged) Pellaeon not to notice, so Pellaeon pretended not to, keeping his gaze fixed to Thrawn's eyes, not to his lips. “Make it a promise.”

“I promise, then,” said Pellaeon. "I give my word."

His hands curled into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking, and the silence between them changed yet again. He watched Thrawn's eyes shift down, studying his hands like works of art, and then trail up again. 

“It doesn’t have to be now,” Thrawn said, his eyes boring into Pellaeon’s.

“I didn’t offer to do it now,” Pellaeon responded levelly. He saw a flicker in Thrawn’s gaze, perhaps amusement, perhaps a warning sign. Sometimes, Pellaeon suspected that Thrawn almost _liked_ to be contradicted and disobeyed. He let the silence thicken between them, waited until he could see the faintest signs of tension beneath Thrawn’s uniform, of uncertainty on his face, and then Pellaeon stepped back gracefully and extended his arm in a courteous gesture.

“Lie down,” he said. 

If this was an order, Thrawn didn’t treat it like one; he studied Pellaeon and touched the hem of his tunic almost absently, considering his words like they were simply a suggestion, and then seemed to decide it was a suggestion he liked. His pace was slow, his movements unbothered; he let his hands fall away without removing his uniform or even undoing the sealing strip and sat on the edge of his bed as if in no great hurry. While Pellaeon watched, hands clasped behind his back in an unconscious imitation of parade rest, Thrawn took his time unlacing his boots and organized them neatly along the edge of the wall before he finally, laconically, uncurled against the mattress and lay down.

Supine. Still in uniform. An expectant, almost teasing gleam in his eye, as if he were daring Pellaeon to do it, but didn’t really believe he would. 

“Gloves on or off?” Pellaeon asked, approaching the bed. He rested one hand on Thrawn’s abdomen as he asked the question, so he could feel the sharp intake of breath even if he couldn’t hear it, even if Thrawn gave no outward sign that he was listening.

“On,” said Thrawn softly. His eyes were hooded, fixed with intensity on Pellaeon’s face and straying nowhere else, even as Pellaeon’s hand crept up from Thrawn’s waist to his chest, even as he knelt on the bed, his knees on either side of Thrawn’s hips. 

They were barely touching, really — just a hint of warmth and pressure between his thighs and Thrawn’s hips, and the brief skim of leather gloves over a uniform so thick it had to be stifling. There was no use trying to tease Thrawn, Pellaeon thought; whether he moved his hands quickly or slowly, Thrawn’s expression didn’t change; whether he _could_ feel it or not, he seemed determined _not_ to. His eyes glittered in a way that suggested he was indulging Pellaeon, teasing him, as if this were his request and not Thrawn’s.

And then Pellaeon’s hands slipped up to Thrawn’s collar, and the exposed skin of his wrist pressed against Thrawn’s pulsepoint, and he felt the hammering of Thrawn’s heart against his skin and couldn’t help but smile. He saw the moment Thrawn realized that his own pulse had betrayed him, the moment his face closed off, unable to disguise the hints of embarrassment and uncertainty and sheer unadulterated need that bled through.

White collar, black leather, blue skin — he pulled the sealing strip down slowly, exposing every inch of Thrawn’s neck from his tense jaw to the upper edge of his collar bone. Beneath Pellaeon, Thrawn’s chest was heaving, his face working to stay impassive, his eyes sliding closed at the feeling of leather against his skin.

With deliberate, almost insulting gentleness, Pellaeon pushed the uniform collar aside. He paused there, his fingers wrapped loosely around Thrawn’s throat, a slow heat uncoiling deep inside him. His thumbs brushed the underside of Thrawn’s jaw; the heels of his palms were positioned at just the right spot for him to feel it when Thrawn swallowed, the column of his throat shifting in anticipation. 

_Talk to me,_ Pellaeon wanted to say. _Tell me what you want. Tell me what you need._

But this was the closest he would get — the quick, shallow breaths, the racing pulse beneath his fingers, the subtle shivers Thrawn was doing his best to suppress. Thrawn’s hands came up almost involuntarily, resting on — no, _clinging to_ — Pellaeon’s hips. 

Reminding him of his promise. Urging him on.

Begging him.

Pellaeon flexed his fingers, the slightest hint of pressure making Thrawn go still beneath him, his breath catching, his muscles tensing and then going limp so quickly it was difficult to tell which came first, or how many times he pushed back the impulse to fight against a chokehold before he finally relaxed against his will.

And he was trembling now, Pellaeon realized, and to tease him any longer would just be cruel.

He leaned forward, pressed his lips against Thrawn’s in a quick, ungentle kiss, and then tightened his grip.


End file.
